Pins, Camels, Angels, Needles

My brother, can I bring thee back once more?What can I do? Where can I tell my woes?To whom can I recount the pain I bore?Our city is now ruled by evil foes.The world has been destroyed beyond belief.How can I live within this house of grief? - from the Battle Poem of Kerbala

An old policy goes
that you have
to get angry.

This fellow told me
to go play in the sun
which is terrible
when you think
about it, the sun.
The exile of it.

In this case
he was right
but not
because he was
all stressed out
about the pain

rather

he was just
preserving his own
exile, no way
to share in pain
so he said:
Go play in the sun.

A few weeks passed
and a few more.
He asked
if he could
still be loved
by me or anyone.
The songs he made up
about me were private
and I knew all about them.
He wondered
where anger was
because it must
be somewhere.

Not all love
feels the same
and as I drifted
home for the evening
from the dialysis center
in Douglas Arizona,
through the utter
darkness I found
his answer.

Injustice I said,
a little too late
for it to matter.
It is about injustice
and this is the exile.
There is no sun in paradise.